


Heartbreak LTD

by AlexisGreen



Category: Muse
Genre: AU!Dom, AU!Matt, Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Plenty of plot, Porn With Plot, Porn to follow later, Romance, Snark, Swag, ego tripping, hipster Dom, stalking for a living
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:59:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexisGreen/pseuds/AlexisGreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dominic Howard runs Heartbreak LTD. He breaks couples up for a living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I love my sunglasses. I'm anonymous, stealthy, a real spy behind them. And right now, I'm watching her - maybe early thirties, a little mousy looking, but a great ass - beg him to move faster, because their boat trip leaves in ten minutes. Her fiancé moves slow, annoyed by her insistence; he'd rather spend today by the swimming pool, I can tell just as if I were lounging in the sun next to them. Finally, they're on their way towards the hotel's reception and I take that as my cue. I snatch my straw fedora - the girls will never let me live it down - and make my way to the jetty through the hotel garden.

The Six Senses hotel is on the upper peninsula, just northeast of Bo Phut, and tourists catch boat rides to Ang Thong Marine Park, which is perfect for what I have planned. I make my way to the jetty just in time to see the hotel shuttle boat leave for the daily trip. We're on, I grin.

About three minutes later, Rebecca is talking to the marina rep. She can't believe they missed the boat, but the rep explains that it's a first come, first served trip. Ang Thong is a big attraction. That's where _The Beach_ was filmed, you know, the Leonardo Di Caprio movie was filmed, he explains. However there's a vet supply shipment leaving soon; they could talk to the skipper if they really want to see the reservation.

I hear the fiancé arguing his case before I finish loading up the boat. My back is at them the entire time. He's a bit heatstroke, he says, it may be best if he heads back to the room and keeps hydrated. I don't have to look at them to know how frustrated she is with his attitude. I also know that the second she is out of sight, he'll be straight back in the lounger by the pool, a cocktail or two close at hand, and eyes firmly trained on any skimpy bikini on a half mile radius. She really could have done much better than him.

The rep pats my shoulder. It takes me a good twenty seconds to remember that Doctor Bishop is supposed to be me, but I feign not paying attention, turn around and wave to her. She looks at me with big eyes, apologetic. I smile; I'm so friendly and sweet I could make a dentist's kid get cavities. There's the boat, it's quite small, the vets need loads of supplies and I can only make the trip once a month.

"What an amazing coincidence," she exclaims. "Are you sure I'm not inconveniencing you?"

"No, no," I wave her onboard. Of course, I don't believe in coincidences. At least not when I have planned every detail of this situation for weeks. I tell her to hang on, and then I start the boat. I smother a chuckle at the thought that three days ago I had no clue how to start up this beast. I am one for perpetual betterment. Especially when it helps my professional life.

We talk about her trip a little. She's wanted to return to Thailand for years, after a holiday with her parents in her teenage years. She found the place magical and she wanted to share some of that magic with her loved one now. She looks rueful when she mentions his name. Poor overworked banker; she tells me that he works long hours in The City and his idea of holiday is doing as little as possible. Preferably nothing.

"No," I say. "Don't tell me he traveled half way around the world to sit by the pool all day?!" I point to the scenery - which is breathtaking, I admit - and shrug. "These islands may not even be here, come next tsunami. Did you know one of them disappears every two years because of global warming?" This is actually a lie, but I'm counting on the fact that there's no wifi in the middle of the ocean for her to google my little nugget of information. "Why waste such an opportunity? You should go explore, get a feel for the culture, eat with the locals, have fun." I watch her and she's hanging onto my every word. I lean over the side of the boat and splash her with water. "Come on, laugh," I beg her, and I really want to see her have fun. I'm a pro at what I do. "You have these amazing dimples; I'd love to see them again."

Shily, she smiles at me, then breaks into a full-blown grin when I splash her again. She's enjoying herself, I can tell. She's also forgotten about the loser who preferred to ogle goddesses at the pool, and she's relaxed enough to confess that she's insisted on the trip because she's been feeling the burnout that comes with planning a wedding. Planning a wedding on her own is a detail I supply to myself, because the sod hasn't helped with absolutely anything, other than making demands for a very exclusive wine list.

I motion her to move in front of me, on the bench and pretend her skin is getting rather red. I suggest that she needs a fresh layer of sunscreen. As I coat her shoulders in cool cream, I hear her breath hitch. With soft strokes, I keep massaging her shoulders, slip my fingers under the straps of her tank top, caress her arms. She sort of leans into me, mesmerised by the motion of the boat underneath us, by the spectacular beauty around us and by me. I have no doubt a lot of her flush has to do with me. Because no one has paid such attention to her in a long time. I told you, I'm a pro at what I do.

Ang Thong is shaping up in front of us. On the beach, we catch up with the tourists which left the hotel right before us. I ask if she wants to rejoin them for the tour. She replies she'd rather see what I do.

I mask a snicker. I point to my boxes, tell her I'm heading for the vet station in the jungle, where a couple of doctors are waiting for supplies. She's so happy to tag along that I almost curse the bastard who's not taking care of her out loud. The journey takes about 40 minutes and there are mosquitos as big as a nut pestering us. I knew I should have added a risk premium to my invoice. Amazingly, she does not complain one single time. She does try to find out more about me, asks about where I'm from.

"York, love," I say. "But I'm very partial to a bit of sunshine." I don't offer much else about me. It's best we maintain the mystery here.

We keep walking and just when I think I have completely messed up my directions, there's a little clearing on the jungle floor and we arrive at the station. While I unpack supplies for the vets - confession time: I did not fake the supplies, I did actually bring some antibiotics and surgery equipment - she talks to Lola, one of the vets. I play with a baby monkey, which is curiously rummaging through my backpack; soon though, a few more follow the little fellow and I look like a dumbass with four monkeys hanging off of me in the weirdest positions. God, I hope they don't have any fleas.

My shenanigans pay off. She looks at me with a bright light in her eyes, hope burning in there again. She thanks Lola in a low voice. When she approaches me, the monkeys finally scamper off. She brushes a few hairs off my tee; her hands linger on my chest, just as she appears to linger, waiting to make her mind off and say something.

She doesn't though, and we head back to the beach. I wave towards a lesser crowded section of the beach, where the seabed is rockier. I ask her of she wants to snorkel with me. It's the perfect opportunity to cool off. The best is yet to come. Floating on top of the reef, I hold her hand and show her the array of colourful fish in the lagoon. She never lets go of my hand. Her emotion is palpable even through our flimsy touch.

The boat is carrying us back to Six Senses, when she gathers enough courage to drop a timid kiss on my shoulder. She whispers her thanks. When I turn around, our mouths meet in a warm kiss; her body is pressed so close to mine, her arms tangled around my neck. This is the moment I've been waiting for; the whole operation depends on this.

With her taste fresh on my lips, I push her back; I'm not rejecting her. I just want her to think about what she's doing. My hands frame her face and our foreheads touch, while she's catching her breath. Our eyes meet. This is it. "Rebecca." I pause. "This is not a good idea."

It's a great idea," she disagrees. Strands of dark honey blond hair flutter around her. "I felt so alive today. I don't… I don't even know when was the last time I felt like this. You felt it too, don't deny it."

"Rebecca," I caution her again.

She launches herself at me, to silence me with another kiss, but I stop her. "I'm a broken man, this is really not want you need right now."

Her eyes grow wider; I know my words got through to her. "Lola said you lost someone dear in Thailand… That you'd been volunteering here every year since. Restless, she called you. Is that it?"

"I'm broken," I repeat. My thumb catches a small tear on her cheek. "I'm messed up, unable to feel. I'm lost," I say and I really believe it right now. "It's not too late for you, though. Find something, someone who makes you happy in life. Not that…," I trail, waving my hand towards the hotel that's already rising on the horizon.

On the beach, we part ways, after she squeezes my hand once again. She turns around several times to wave to me. The tears are gone; there's just a big smile on her face, one that I hope will be there for years to come. That fucker in his lounger won't know what hit him.

It takes me about ten minutes to get to the main road in the resort and flag a taxi. I'm staying at the Tongsay Bay; couldn't risk running into the lovebirds at the Six Senses. Well, soon to be ex-lovebirds. I'm texting my team and head into my private suite, which I did make sure to include in my invoice beforehand.

A couple more days of sea, sun and sand and two more layers added to my year-round tan, and I'm boarding my flight in Bangkok. I enjoy a nice champagne and some scallops for dinner and sleep like a baby for seven hours.

I'm refreshed from my rest, so decide to head straight into the office. I run into Lola on my way in; she's already dropping off two more contracts on my desk. My own face grins at me as I walk down the hall of our headquarters. Blond hair, silver eyes. Million-bucks smile. I'm a handsome, irresistible motherfucker. If you don't believe me, just ask the tens of couples I broke up. I'm Dominic Howard and I run this place. Welcome to Heartbreak LTD!


	2. Chapter 2

I see you rolling your eyes as I introduce our agency. We're a lot more innocent than you might imagine. I bet your filthy minds automatically assume I sleep with loads of women for a living, tricking them into cheating on their boyfriends, partners, husbands.

You're wrong, you know. I never sleep with my clients. (If I did, most people would not be able to afford me. Yes, I am that good.) I don't need to guilt-trip my clients into a sexual high for them to want someone different, someone better. Besides, if you think women are just motivated by their sex drive, then you really need to get out more and lay off the porn for a while.

Most of our clients just need to be appreciated, supported, have their value recognized. They are frequently so happy to be in a relationship at all, that they forgive their partners' worst habits, the nose-picking and butt-scratching and the burping. They go as far as excusing the lack of interest and involvement in the relationship, the constant flirting with other women, even cheating.

Look around you. Everyone's lives are public these days. Facebook profiles, tweets, tumblr blogs. Everything is out in the open. And yet dating is more complicated than ever. Commitment is virtually non-existent. Everyone's after instant gratification; you meet in a club, snog in a cab, fuck on a sofa, you're out by morning. No wonder the online dating business in worth more than a billion bucks worldwide, and this is a statistic I did research.

Most women who find themselves in a relationship just hang onto it tooth and nail. Who cares whether someone better might come along? The fear of growing old alone speaks louder than that little voice inside that whispers ' _Is this it?!?!'_

But that's where I come along. I don't sell sex, I don't sell illusions. I don't deal in creating false expectations. Together with my team of analysts - you've met Lola already, remember? - I spend weeks learning everything there is to know about the subject. Yes, it's kinda stalkerish, but that's what we have confidentiality and non-disclosure agreements for. By the end of our research, we have an incredible understanding of our subject, including things she might have forgotten about herself. We learn her strengths, what feeds her ambition, what makes her tick and function everyday, what sets her apart. We use that knowledge to remind her that the future is within her control.

I'm not saying there's a knight in shining armour around the corner for everyone. I'm just liberating women of the dull-eyed ogres who keep the takeaway joints in business and the sofas warm. When I finish a project, they go back into the world and find their prince. Or they are the prince. Or princess, whatever floats their boat.

I can see the wheels in your head turning and you suddenly think I'm this big philanthropist. Stop right there. I've never pretended not to be in this business for the money. Oh, the money. Money is sweet, because I'm the best at what I do. Forty-three straight wins.

And with this adequate introduction and as we're speaking of income, it's time for me to put my money where my swag is. Three new projects await my attention, stacked up on my desk. Lola has organized everything in colour-coordinated folders; her use of filing systems is convoluted most days, but why should we trip over petty details?

In blue marker pen over a horrid amber front page, Lola has scribbled _Caroline Walker_. I pick up the notes inside. Engagement of Heartbreak LTD has come via her mom. Who heard about us from an old school friend. I chuckle. More than half of our business comes from referrals.

Caroline has been in a relationship with a stockbroker for six years. She desperately wants kids, but he keeps postponing the wedding and starting a family as he's dedicating all his attention to his career. In fact, his career is so important to him that Caroline's only social appearances together with his seem to be industry dinners and his firm's Christmas parties. I pay attention to Caroline's mom's words. "She's a changed woman lately, without energy, without shine. She takes no enjoyment in anything."

Lola has already done a background check on him. He seems to be quite boring, really. Spends long days in the office, golfs and sails - with his company's clubs - at the weekends. Not a lot of hobbies, other than paving his way for the next promotion. And the next one after that. Maybe he's really just an ambitious sod who'd rather be working than seducing his girlfriend. Too bad for him. I add a few questions and requests for more details, then drop the folder in the tray labeled 'Out' for Lola. This one's fairly straightforward. I'm confident we'll be able to help Caroline.

I find a slightly different situation in the next folder. Two children are involved. We must tread carefully. Again, her parents are the ones concerned. Her is Sylvia Baum, and apparently, she's miserable due to significant differences in opinion related to their children's education. Oldest kid has Asperger's. Mom Sylvia wants to pay for special education, which will allow the kid a higher functional integration with people later in life. Dad claims it's too expensive, that they can't afford it. Which is odd, say Sylvia's parents, because the family-run business the dad has taken over from his in-laws had provided for more than a comfortable income for the last thirty years.

This is intriguing. A couple of hours with our financial expert in Geneva and we track down a few hidden investments that husband has ferretted away from his family. Way to make it easy for me, asshole, I snigger at my own laptop. We just need to confirm that Sylvia doesn't know about the money. If she doesn't, it should not be difficult to find out what the dumbass planned to do with it. I might not even have to be involved much on this one. Our solicitor will contact the family and take it from there.

It's an hour later, as I return from lunch - the new Korean place downstairs serves the most amazing _kimchi_ \- that I get to review the third project. At first, I think one of the girls got the names wrong. Or maybe it's a joke. They're playing a prank on me. I spy Lola and Agnes, the office coordinator, through my open door. They're trying very hard to look like they're not trying very hard to avoid looking at me. I stalk out and drop the folder on Lola's desk. "What's this?"

"Your new client, Dominic," she smiles to me. She looks way too wicked to be an angel, as much as that smile might try to fool me.

I'm stubborn though. And have been doing this for three years. Three years of dodging their attempts to - how did they put it last time? - diversify our service range. "You're gonna call them and tell them we're not taking the case."

I do this thing sometimes, when I try to look menacing. I pull it off half convincingly now, then turn around quickly before the mask slips off. Lola doesn't give up though. She follows me into my office, closes the door behind her. "Dominic," she says, ignoring my attempt to prevent her speaking. "You have to do it. It's a very lucrative proposal. They know you're not doing this usually; they're paying a huge premium."

"Do we need the money, Lola?"

"We do, if you want to open up the New York office." She dangles my biggest dream in front of me, looking as innocent as a first grader in music class.

"Why are they so desperate? Why pay us such an amount, when they can just go to another agency?" I ask.

"He's getting married in two months."

And there it is, my biggest apprehension. A male client. A gay, male client. Yeah, yeah, gasp all you want, this here is what makes my knees go weak.

You may have wondered about this, but not asked the question out loud. How do I do it? Well, I'm charming, articulate and hot; women just seem to fall at my feet. I'm kidding, I know that's not what you meant. You wanted to know how do I waltz in and out of someone's life, without ever becoming attached. It's easy. I play for the other team, you know? I'm a friend of Ben's, get it? Fine, I thought you'd appreciate my humour. I'm gay, alright? And I certainly can't take on a gay client. That's really not my area of expertise. Although I'm pretty sure I'm hot.

But here's the deal. I know I'm being a hypocrite. I just prefer to think of it as appropriate use of natural talent. Women love me, always have, always will. Men - not so much. And believe me, I tried. My longest relationship lasted twelve days. It was also back in secondary school. I do one night stands easily enough. I just never seem to hold someone's interest beyond fucking. And to be fair, not a lot of people are able to hold mine either.

That night, I take the green folder home with me. I turn the proposal inside out, go over details obsessively. If I do take it on, it's gonna be a hell of a challenge. I sleep on it. Next morning, I ask Lola to set up lunch with the engagement contact. I really need to know more about what the fuck I'm getting into.

"Hi, I'm Chris."

I'm pretty sure the man shaking my hand would dwarf me even if I weren't sitting down. He's grinning though and it puts me at ease. We're in a quiet little bistro in Hoxton, close to the office. We chit chat for a short while, just while we order our food. I might as well ask him, as we wait. "Why are you doing this?"

"What do you mean," he asks. Surprise is not difficult to read on his face.

"Families are usually those who get in touch. You know, concerned mothers, dads. We see all the scenarios in the world, the cheating husband, the boyfriend with a gambling problem or with a snorting problem or with an unemployment problem. I want to know why are you going at such lengths to make sure your friend is not getting married?"

Chris pauses. I can tell he's wondering whether to bullshit me or tell me the truth. I know exactly which one it is the second he speaks the words. "Matthew doesn't have anyone else looking out for him. Since we were kids, it's just been him and me. And he's not happy. Whatever he might say, he's not."

There's conviction in his voice. I believe him. So I take the case.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

If I have to suffer, I decide Lola has to, as well. I've made her field assistant for the job; we're currently parked on a quiet street in Primrose Hill and my ass is numb already, after only two hours in the cramped car. There's a slight drizzle outside, which basically goes perfect with my current mood.

I look back at my notes. I might as well continue scratching my head though, because there's absolutely nothing in my folder to confirm Chris' belief. This dude, Matthew, can't be unhappy. He walks around with a permanent smile on his face. During the last three days, I photographed him in the supermarket, at the movies, out with mates for lunch, at work, in the tube and at the doctor's. Not a single frown. Seriously, who the fuck is _that_ happy?

Don't get me started on the fiancé. Mark Barwick. He's an advertising executive, really hipsterish looking, trimmed beard, tailored blazers, thick-rimmed glasses, slightly taller. He's loaded, from what I dug up on his bank accounts, so there's little chance he's after Matthew's money. They met through work. Mark's agency took care of the promos for a series of high profile auctions Matthew's company ran two years ago. They've been together since. He brings Matthew flowers at least once a week, and they go out for dinner a lot. He popped the question while on holiday in Spain. The guy is pretty much perfect.

They exit the house. We can vaguely hear raised voices, so I immediately perk up. I hope they're fighting. (No, I don't feel bad saying that. I'm on the job here.) I could use a break in this case. Damn it. I spoke too soon. Even from this distance, I can hear Matthew's cackling, which manages to both annoy me and make me smile. Through the binoculars, I see him throw his arms around Mark's neck. What do you know, all is still perfect in paradise.

In the dim streetlights, I watch them get in the car and it strikes me again. Matthew's attractive. Not classically. No, he's too angular, too unusual looking to be handsome. But despite some physical flaws - guy has a sharp nose and a wonky tooth, for fucks sake - he exudes an energy that has others gravitate around him, like satellites on orbit. I've watched it happen, when I followed him, the smiles he gets, from men and women alike. He's a force of nature. What the hell did I get myself into?

We follow them to a restaurant. Through the large windows, we have a great view of the couple. They're even holding hands on the table. They are _this_ disgustingly happy.

A couple of hours later, we get ready to call it a night, when they reappear. I'm close to strangling Lola, and possibly Chris if my arms were long enough, because Mark stops to buy a Big Issue from one of the homeless guys on the street corner, then proceeds to give the guy a doggie bag of all the leftovers from their meal. We're within earshot and hear Mark explaining that they barely touched the food. He leaves before the homeless guy can thank him too much. In the car, I pick up my jaw from the floor and smack my head against the steering wheel. Lola doesn't dare to laugh; that's how I know we're in deep shit.

In the morning, I call Chris. I tell him we're making no progress. As much as I regret not being able to follow through on the job, I'm really not interested in wasting more time.

Chris insists though. He says he's known Matthew for close to twenty years and he's not mistaken. He also has an idea that he wants to discuss; it might help give us an edge.

When he tells me more, that evening over drinks, my mojito backs right up through my nose and I sputter in the most undignified manner. Even for me, his idea is preposterous. "You're joking?!"

"No, not at all," he says. "It's the perfect excuse. You'll be able to get close to Matthew."

"Yeah, sure, that part is great, but," I point to myself, "head of personal security? Really?!"

"Look, we're in the auction business. It's usual practice that we travel with a security detail when we go on location for auctions. There will be actual bodyguards there too; I would not risk our assets or Matthew's safety."

I still look unconvinced that we can pull it off, so he carries on. "The head of security usually coordinates tasks, adequate levels of staffing, ensures locations are secure, engages with police, so on. You won't have to do any heavy lifting, per say," he hides a smile saying that. "And you'll be in Nice, away from Mark, away from other interferences for almost three weeks."

I'm still dubious about the proposal. It's tempting, I admit. My chances - if they even exist, as Chris seems to think - would definitely improve if Mark is out of the picture.

Chris' plan gains definition in the next couple of days. Starting with the end of the week, I'll be Matthew's head of personal security, as his and Chris' company runs several auctions in Nice. Chris spends many hours talking me through what exactly does Bellamy's specialize in, from artwork to collectables and I go to bed each evening with art dictionaries. I don't admit this to anyone, but this job flusters me for many reasons. It's virgin territory for me, for one. Yeah, it's like all the stuff I've learned doing this job for years have vanished from my head and left a big void. Which brings me to the second issue - my personal track record of dating men is exactly that, a big void. There's no lessons to apply here, nothing that I can fall back on. I'm scared shitless.  

On Friday morning, I walk into Bellamy's. I haven't been able to eat anything for more than twenty-four hours, but now that I'm here, I'm more than determined to pull this off. I own this shit, I tell myself, smirking to my reflection in the lift mirror. Chris meets me on the tenth floor and leads me to Matthew's office for introductions.

Matthew grins at me and I want to kick myself. Up close, his eyes are electric, something that no picture I've taken conveys properly. When I said he was attractive, I really didn't do him justice. Weirdly, yes, he is short and skinny, his wonky tooth is still there, but on the whole, he's stunning. I can't explain it. I do contain my drooling in time to shake his hand.

We spend the next few minutes exchanging contact details; Chris has already equipped me with a new phone, iPad and in-ear monitors, as part of my assignment. Matthew updates me on the schedule for the next few days. I already know all of it; in fact, Lola is already setting up camp in the hotel in Nice. I'm quietly thankful for Chris' advance prep because I'm not sure I could have kept up. The dude talks fast.

That evening, we fly out to Nice, and I step into my role completely. I frown at anyone as much as looking in Matthew's direction, check the rest of the security team's credentials and spend a couple of hours after landing making sure all the cargo has made it past customs safely and into the vaults of the hotel.

The first perk of my senior position kicks in. I have clearance to check in with Matthew late that night. He lets me into his suite, and I nearly wish he doesn't because I'm not ready for the sight of him in an oversized tee and red plaid boxers. Again - he's smiling. (I really should have asked Chris about this; maybe Matthew has got some kind of compulsion to walk around with a smile plastered all over his face.) I let him know that my room is just next door, if he needs anything. Even as I say that, I struggle to try and keep my tone professional. I'm not ready to lay on any seduction yet. We part when he yawns and cannot focus on my debrief. We agree to catch up during breakfast tomorrow. I kick Lola out of my room then fall asleep. Tomorrow is another day.

Tomorrow comes too soon though. And I'm in a foul mood. It's _his_ fault. No, it's actually Lola's fault; if she hadn't dangled the temptation of overseas expansion in front of my eyes, I wouldn't be here. However, I'd rather not think of Lola right now, as my cock twitches at the thought of electric blue eyes.

I know I'm going to be late, I know I'm keeping him waiting, but there's not much I can do about it. I prop my head on my lower arm for support. Hot water hits my back; my skin is numb after the long minutes in the shower, but that's okay because all sensation in my body seems to have channeled into my groin, pressure building slowly. There's a slight tremor tickling my shoulders as I slow down my hand, drawing out the pleasure, reaching underneath to tease my balls. I don't want the climax yet, I don't want the release. I want to keep fantasizing about sharp angles and thin lips, about a lithe body left at my mercy.

And yeah, I need these minutes to make sure I can go downstairs to meet Matthew without acting like an animal in heat for the rest of the day. So I take my time, eyes screwed shut as hand returns to my cock, tightening in just enough friction to make sure it pushes me a tiny step closer to orgasm, images of yesterday still floating about in my head.

It's still over too quickly. The fantasy is too strong to resist and here, on familiar ground, with the smell of sex around me, I'm unable to stop. Spurts of come hit the wall in succession as my hand speeds up and corkscrews in long pulls of skin. My knees are weak and all I want is another ten minutes in bed to ride out this post-orgasm high.

I quickly finish my shower though, making sure all signs of my morning wank are gone. It's time for another suit and I already have a navy Valentino pressed and waiting for me.

Matthew is on the phone in the hotel lobby as I arrive. He waves off my apologies, then makes his way to the restaurant. Sitting in front of him, watching him eat one of the world's best omelets and getting dizzy on the smell of his cologne, I get half hard again. Damn it. 


	4. Chapter 4

I watch him as he carries on with the second half of the auction. In the room, most eyes are on him, instead of the Rodin bust that is currently displayed under a focus light. The art is supposed to be the whole point of this event and still, since the sessions started, everyone seems to hang onto his every word, as if he’s the one animating each object with some magical history. God help me if he ever decides to turn that power of persuasion in my direction. I don’t think I would resist any request from him.

There are a couple of phone bidders who get the auction going, but the sculpture fetches a little over twelve thousand dollars. I could nearly afford that, I think to myself. Definitely can’t afford the next piece though. It’s a Pissaro canvas, dated c1900, and the bids start flying around. I have to hand it to Matthew; he handles it with confidence, a master of ceremony come into his own. His attention singles out significant buyers or their reps in the crowd, and when he speaks to them, he draws them in, no, he drags them deeper into the bidding, with that quirk in his mouth, with those devil eyes. The amounts that are flying around start to make me really uncomfortable in my role of fake security detail. I search Chris' eyes across the room. His nod lets me know he's on top of things. That makes one of us. All I want to be on top of is Matthew.

The auction wraps at a million eight hundred, and my ears are buzzing with the chatter of the security teams as the painting is taken back to the vault under heavy escort. I should have paid more attention to the cargo manifest at the customs. I had no idea we’d be dealing with these kind of transactions. I can't focus too much on it. It's time for another canvas, and then another, followed by sculptures. My role here may be fake, but I still feel responsible for the job I undertook. If the math still works in my head, at the end of the day, Bellamy's has made a couple of million in commissions only. Holy shit.

Chris invites me to join them for dinner that evening. I haven't had a chance to clarify what role he expects me to assume. So I straddle a weird and awkward line between peer and employee. Which is difficult as fuck, because when Chris cracks a joke, Matthew does that cackling thing that I've witnessed from afar plenty of times. The fact that it makes everyone in the bistro turn towards us barely even registers with me. My eyes find a spot under his jaw. I cannot look away. When I do, eventually, it's only because I need to mentally slap myself - hard - for not snapping out of the trance earlier. Matthew is friendly, nothing much. I'm one of the guys now. Chris, however, looks like he's about to either actually slap me, or hug me. No idea which. Not sure I want to know, to be honest.

We do end up talking business for ten minutes. Their business. There are two more days of auctions this week, then two days of acquisitions. More of the same next week, except the schedule apparently includes a long weekend off for Matthew and Chris afterwards. It's hard not to take the hint after Chris mentions long weekend five times in two sentences. I kick him under the table to let him know I got it. Of course, my leg brushes against Matthew's in the process. I mask the movement pretending to be stretching. "Damn French tables," I joke. "Any smaller and I'd eat from my lap." Matthew gives me an odd look. Chris snorts. At least the conversation is moving along, as our fillet mignons arrive at the table. I grab my glass of wine - not my first choice for drinks, but when in France… - and swallow, wishing for the umpteenth time that this whole fluster would just fuck off to let me do my job.

Two days later, I'm no longer ready to keel over at hearing the amounts being thrown around for all the artwork on sale at Bellamy's. That's the only upside that goes towards the time that's already passed since we arrived in Nice. There are many downsides however. Biggest of which being that I have not had one single opportunity to get closer to Matthew than dinner on our second day. Not for lack of trying, from my part or from Chris'. Auctions got pretty intense and Matthew was knackered in the evenings. Much as I'd want to volunteer a shoulder rub, or, you know, a something else rub, I don't blame the guy. These days have been brutal.

And still, what we lack is some action. Yeah, that's exactly the type of action I have in mind. Well, yes and no. Most people who know me (okay, ninety nine point ninety nine percent of the people who know me) would confirm I am no action man extraordinaire. Nope. But we need something to break the routine, something to get Matthew to step out of his regimented schedule. Something to get him to see me in a different light.

A couple of phone calls and Lola and I have a plan. Details are quickly falling into place, planning is very much our forte. I'm back on familiar ground. A.k.a. somewhere where I don't have to tell my dick to behave every few minutes. I'm escorting Matthew outside to his car next morning. He's one step inside the Mini he's rented while in Nice, when he's suddenly jostled out and thrown to the ground. A thug - can't really make out any features behind a khaki hoodie - makes a grab for Matthew's briefcase. He plucks the keys that have been dropped on the pavement and jumps behind the wheel. I have less than thirty seconds to react. Matthew is fine; the corner of my eye catches him already rushing to his feet. Matthew's briefcase however is about to disappear out of sight. Important paperwork is in there and it might compromise significant transactions. I therefore do the only thing I can think of. I leg it after the car.

I nearly catch up with the Mini around the corner, when the driver takes a sudden right and manages to put some distance between us. I sprint down the street, dodging tourists and souvenir stands. I'm almost certain I'll lose the car, but bless French Riviera, the Mini is briefly delayed by incoming traffic. It's enough to get me close. I try the driver door, but it's been blocked from the inside. So I improvise. I grab a chair from a pavement café and crash it through the side window, then drag the driver out and manage a couple of punches while he's still dazed. By the time Matthew and a couple of additional bodyguards round the corner, the French police are already cuffing the car jacker and I have secured Matthew's briefcase.

"Are you crazy?" He's not loud, but he's not happy either. He's in my face, as I hand him his briefcase back. I'm not sure what I expected from him, but this isn't really it. _He's… angry?_

"Just doing-"

"I don't give a fuck. We've insurance for these situations," there's that odd look on his face again, the one I can't decipher yet, and mother of god, this must be the first time I've seen him not smiling. "You could have been hurt."

"I'm trained for _these situations_ , too." I emphasise his choice of words, although god knows why. Maybe it'll add weight to the statement. Because I've had no fucking training for such thing, yet adrenaline still buzzes through me and makes me feel very much on top of things. There's that phrase again, I do not need to think about any top right now.

I point to the Mini. "We'll need a new car. And from now on, I'll be driving you around while we're here."

Matthew tries to protest, but Chris' arrival on scene puts a stop to it. "This is Dominic's job," he tells Matthew in a very stern, serious voice and just like that, Matthew acknowledges then turns to me. He puts his hand out.

"Thank you. I'm sorry," fuck me sideways, I think he's gonna smile at me, yeap, there it is and my knees go just a little bit weaker. "I should have thanked you sooner. Don't risk your safety over a briefcase again, though. I'd much rather have you… in one piece."

Behind us, the thug is loaded into a police van. Beyond that smile, even though we're shaking hands now, the only thing registering with me however is the fact he said _have me_. As if my brain needed any more incentive to run with that idea. My fantasies aside, we have connected, truly connected, maybe for the first time since we met. Not just that, I'm now able to shadow him for almost the entire day. I have more access to him, therefore more opportunities. Phase two, here we come.

I step aside to make a quick phone call, while Matthew and Chris organise a new rental.

"Did it work?" Lola asks.

"It worked," I grin to myself.

*****

“So what do you do for fun?” I ask. It's Thursday evening and we've been in Nice for ten days. Chris has excused himself for the weekend and has flown back to London to see his family. Conveniently, I might add. Especially since he left a shitload of stuff for Matthew to cover, effectively preventing Matthew from doing the same trip and spending time with Mark.

Matthew and I have spent so much time in each other's company by now - sadly, all professional - that we've paired up for dinner most evenings. Tonight's not an exception and the sushi at Haruki is apparently famous world wide.

“There’s a museum I thought about checking out. Wait, what?” He looks confused by my eye roll.

“You work with museums every day, Matthew. I get that you enjoy what you do, but that’s taking it too far. Now, what do you do for _fun_ fun?”

Bashful and suppressing a small smile, he admits. “Not much. Mark and I have a lot of social commitments usually, we’re out frequently. It's dinner and a movie if it’s just the two of us.”

I scoff. This is Nice, we can do so much better than that. I tell him as much.

“Go on, what do you suggest we do?” He dares me. The apprehension that would have been there last week is now gone. And he's still smiling. I know I picked the right time to take my game up a notch.

“Okay, you ready?” I wink and he bursts into laughter. “Tomorrow’s Friday. Let’s take off after lunch. I’ll have a boat waiting for us in the harbour.”

“A boat?” He can’t exactly see where I’m going with the idea, and that’s great, because I want the surprise to knock him off his feet. “Yeah, pack flip flops and swim shorts.”

He looks at me dubiously and I can’t help but joke. “Don’t tell me you’re more a Speedos kinda a man.” Even as I say it, I wish I could slurp the words right back as the image is unlikely to ever leave my head. Glutton for punishment, that I am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'll be damned, it's been nearly a year. Promise not to leave the next update for 2015...


End file.
